


Final Light

by darkuponlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Dance With Dragons (POV), Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Death, F/M, Internal Thoughts, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:05:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4547820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkuponlight/pseuds/darkuponlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon's thoughts after he's been stabbed by his black brothers and waits for death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Light

**Author's Note:**

> “…Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.”  
> \- Tales of a Wayside Inn, Henry W. Longfellow 
> 
> “’Alas, how have these offended?’  
> ‘The death of young wolves is never to be pitied.’”  
> \- The Duchess of Malfi, John Webster  
> ~  
> This piece can be read as a prequel to my other fic, "Through The Darkness".

If only she were here, to comfort him. Let them die; let that be they’re penance, as his was to be having failed her. He tried to gulp down the hot tears of rage and betrayal that threatened to spill over. He, perhaps, was the ultimate betrayer of them all…

 _I have no sister_.

He shut his eyes in shame. Arya was doomed to pay for Jon’s rage with her pain. He was to pay for his mistake with his life.   
  
_Arya…_  
  
Oh, he wasn’t stupid. He knew, as he had known the first night that he had brought the wildlings over the Wall, that Bowen Marsh had wanted him gone. And yet, he never suspected his sworn brothers could and would betray him. He supposed his declaration to march on House Bolton had been the final straw, but what else could he have done? Either way, he was damned. He had to concede defeat with Bowen; he was far cleverer, much more ruthless, in his systematic breakdown of his command.

 _And Arya was lost._  
  
And that was the final, ultimate defeat, wasn’t it? He had dreamed of slitting the Bolton bastard’s throat and saving Arya. Her eyes would fill with tears and she would tell him she knew he’d come. That she’d never doubted him. He’d hold her, safe and at home in his arms, it would have all been worth it.

He had dreamed, since the day he left home, of being with her once again. Weren’t they once kindred spirits, eager to escape their family’s scorn? Longing to be accepted?

And yet…and yet…he knew death. He didn’t romanticize it. Since the day they took his father’s head. In his time here, he had taken lives and watched the light fade from they’re eyes. He’d known how those left behind would mourn, he was once one of them. Of course, they’d mourn for you a while, wouldn’t they? Except no one would mourn him… _save one._  
  
It would be better that she died than go on to live with that monster… Gods, help her…  
  
He ignored the fading voices from somewhere behind him, and soon they began to drift away.   
  
His hour, his final hour, passed slowly.   
  
There was silence all around him. The others had retired to the castle. The morning would soon be coming, and the dull ache in his body where the blood gushed out reminded him of his impending death.

That cruel and sadistic bastard would have her. Arya…they would close in on her like hungry wolves. Would she be facing this same fate? He doubted it—something told him that the bastard would understand what it would mean to Arya to go on so crippled and weary and wounded. 

_I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back…_

The sky was lightening further. Jon’s body shivered with pain, each nerve lined with a dull throbbing. Dying. He embraced himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his broken body, hoping that somehow she could feel him, hear him, begging her to hold on…she had to hold on.  
  
Somewhere, in a battle ridden place, in darkness… hadn’t he held someone like this? Hadn’t he begged her to hold on, that she would live to see a hundred castles?

 _Kissed by fire..._ _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Insidious death was creeping over him as he had felt it then in that same moment in time. He felt the same drawing down into a different kind of darkness—or was it light? So hard to tell in these moments.   
  
The loss of blood was making him delirious.

* * *

  _An image faded in and out of the haze of light; the quaint little candelabrum that rested on the table in the dining room. Arya used to play with the yellow flames, quickly trying to pinch them out at the bottom, where it burned blue. It used to concern Jon, who often sat nearby and watched her. Then, she reached up and pinched it again--_

  
_“Arya, don’t.” Jon’s voice. A gentle hand pushing hers away._  
  
_“Why not?”_  
  
_“It will burn.”_  
  
_“Like the sun?”_  
  
_“No, like the moon.” Chuckled Jon._  
  
_She giggled. “I know that doesn’t burn, stupid! It’s the wrong color.”_  
  
_He looked at her, amused. “The wrong color?”_  
  
_“Yes,” she explained with an exaggerated patience, “It’s pale and white, like snow. The sun is red and yellow, like fire. It burns.”_

_He had smiled at her indulgently._

_She decided to demonstrate more of her cleverness. “I read a dornish poem about the sun. It said that it was like a great big ball of fire in the sky, like the moon, but it scorches with its heat, because it was so bright. Can you imagine that, Jon? Something so strong that it lights up every room, every wood and shadow?”_  
  
_Jon shrugged. “Of course I can. We see it every day, Arya.” He said, trying to suppress his chuckles._

 _“Yes, yes I know,” she waved dismissively, “But not like in Dorne. It’s not like in the poem! It’s- it’s beautiful” she had finished demurely, a blush creeping up high on her cheeks._  
  
_“It does sound beautiful,” said Jon, his voice soft. “It’s the thing I suppose I’d like to see most,” he mused._  
  
_“Then let’s go!” she had exclaimed and clutched his hand, “Let’s go to Dorne, Jon. Just you and I.”_

 _And it was one of his earliest recollections that Arya would be wed one day, perhaps to some Dornish Lord, where she’d see that great big ball of fire every day, far across and away from Winterfell, away from him…the thought made him sick._  
  
_“One day” Jon said quickly, running his fingers across the edge of the table, “But really, Arya, home means much more—“_  
  
_“—I want to see it, though! I want to understand what the poet meant about ‘golden stripes on the sand’—“_  
  
_“There are other things,” Jon insisted. He glanced at Arya who wore a petulant frown, he sighed, “But if you truly wish to see it, you will. We will, little sister.”_

_He was rewarded with a beloved toothy smile._

* * *

Someone was shouting orders, somewhere from behind him…the dream faded into pale light. 

  
"Father!” He did not know whether he had sobbed that out loud. He hoped not. It sounded pained and child-like in that moment, too predictably emotional. He was a man now, and somewhere in the chaos, he had indeed killed the boy.  
  
He closed his eyes, whimpering with pain that had nothing to do with his wounds. No, this was a pain that was etched deeply within his heart and soul. Pain that flowed within the very blood that was escaping him. He hid his face further within the snow, screwing his eyes shut in reflex to damning death.

Daylight was increasing, the sun was peeking its way out behind the winter clouds. And then, with a child’s nostalgia, he had to see this apparition.

There was no longer darkness behind his eyelids, but a bright orange light, like when he had sat at that table and shut his eyes as he listened to Arya describe that great, magnificent dornish sun. Imagining it’s ferocious and blinding rays of light. It was too tempting to miss out on, and he opened his eyes. It was only a winter’s sun, but he could not recall the last time he had allowed himself to feel its warmth, and it was enough.

His eyes streamed with tears, blurring his vision. He forgot his pain and the anger and betrayal and regret as the sky lightened to a pale blue he could not remember having seen since days when he and Arya had chased each other throughout Winterfell.  
  
And with that beloved memory, the benediction was delivered. Beautiful filtered sunlight, golden, warming, something to gladden the heart of a man trapped for too long in darkness. It touched the edges of the trees, and turned the snow to glistening jewels. He blinked and marveled at the light, as each ray illuminated everything in its wake. His life here at the Wall had been governed by darkness and pain, by war and loss. The shining memory of Arya, which burned brighter than all the suns, had obliterated it all, bathing the noise and the darkness in silent, final light. 

**Author's Note:**

> You're fine, Jon. Just get up and shake it off (denial is how I cope haha)... So sorry for the angst but I hope this didn't disappoint *twiddles thumbs nervously* I was inspired by the Rhaegar + Lyanna = Jon theory and so I thought I'd try and subtly incorporate it by making a connection between Jon's Southron and Northern roots by using the sun as the general theme here (he's not Dornish, but he was born in Dorne so...). And more importantly how both Jon's Stark and Targaryen roots relate back to Arya in the form of his love for her. I hope that makes sense? lol Thank you all for reading!


End file.
